


The Growlithes of Baskerville

by alektheloris



Category: CONAN DOYLE Arthur - Works, Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, The Oscar Wilde Murder Mysteries - Gyles Brandreth
Genre: Deconstruction, Derrida - Freeform, Italy, Literary References & Allusions, Literary Theory, Modernism, Pokemon References, Postmodernism, Queer Theory, Roma | Rome, critical theory, occasional drinking, occasional profanity, rustic dandy adventures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 16:10:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2394659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alektheloris/pseuds/alektheloris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when longtime chums Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Oscar Wilde reunite in an Italian villa chock full of Pokemon? Only decadent dandy and plaid-clad rustic adventures can ensue when Conan Doyle decides to train to be a Pokemon Master. Grab your glass of preferred alcohol and come along for the ride!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first return to fan fic for many years, so I hope you enjoy! It's just a pure fun, craic crack fic xD

“Arthur, must you let that canine on the balcony during luncheon? It’s positively frightening my Chansey,” admonished Oscar in a high dandy trill, as he sipped a rather plentiful glass of Prosecco.

Conan Doyle, sitting opposite Oscar at their silk table-clothed luncheon feast, rolled his eyes and focused his scowl out on the balmy blue-green waters of the Amalfi coast. Their Sorrento summer house sat mere feet from the water, as well as just below the mountain range above. “Just because one of your precious Pokémon resembles a Max Beerbohm caricature of your bulbous and less-than-delicate features, does not give you the right to hate on my Growlithe.” Arthur cracked into the lobster before him by a particularly mischievous Mr. Mime butler, determined not to let Oscar’s comments get to him—today anyway. 

Among the pair’s Pokémon party were Arthur’s Oddish, basking in the summer sunlight just next to the window boxes, and Oscar’s newly evolved Gengar, grimacing over Oscar’s shoulder in envy of the lobster. 

“Ahhhhhhh seems to be the last of our Prosecco, oh poo…” whined Oscar. “Chansey, my dear boy, fetch Arthur and me two of our crustal flutes and another bottle of champagne, would you?”

Chansey waddled back inside, choosing to obey the dandy as usual, and did so. “Charming,” said Oscar. “Arthur, eat more of your lobster, while it’s still fresh.”

“Now now I’m not a child…You’re lucky I indulge you.”

“I could say the same, after all the champagne and rich seafood and cheese I’ve treated you to. Now stop complaining.”

Conan Doyle sighed into his glace and focused his eyes back on the churing, stormy sea below. “The clouds are coming in fast off the Tyrrhenian Sea and the waves are breaking hard down there.”

“Mmmm maybe we should move inside.” Oscar glanced up at the deep gray/purple clouds gathering ahead. “I would hate for you to ruin that new tweed suit of yours.” He took another sip of his refilled glass. “It becomes you.”

“Heavens!” Arthur said in mocking imitation of Oscar’s own outrageous and occasional outbursts.

“Heavens, indeed.” Oscar ignored the mockery, checking his cuticles. 

Arthur tried to hide the blush moving clear across his face, as so often did happen when one companion or another dealt him a bit of flattery. “Ahem…well…yes, it does rather suit me. Pun intended.”

Arthur plowed on and ignored the rumbling overhead. “Speaking of weather, you know I’m going to Rome in a few days.”

“Oh my dear, I had forgot…why again?”

“I’m set to make acquaintance with, and battle, the gym leader there.” Oscar looked rather bored, swinging leg to and fro while patting his dear beloved Chansey on the head. 

Gengar nuzzled his coif in jealousy at not getting adequate attention. “You know I’m on a journey to be the next Pokémon master. How could you forget??”

Oscar offered a simple, “I just did.”

“Anyway, I think you know him…A gym leader by the name of Jareth Verde. He’s famous for training rather a rather vain and aesthetically pleasing group of Pokémon.”

“Well that certainly fits his personality,” Oscar scoffed in disapproval. “He’s a rather bothersome and vulgar individual. Or, he can be. I’m sure his Pokémon are the same as their master. I assume he has a Charmeleon in his group?”

“You guessed right.”

“As I often do. Charmeleon are notorious for their vanity, and they’re terribly difficult to train. This may work in your advantage, Arthur.”

“Anyway,” Arthur continued, “I’m weighing whether I should take the trains or not, up north to Rome.”

“The TRAINS?” Oscar spat out a bit of the Prosecco on his three-piece violet-colored suit. “Why would you ever do such a thing? Take the yacht, my dear boy. I do not tolerate train travel, too pedestrian.”

“Well I just figured you might want the yacht. I didn’t know you were coming with?”

“Well of couuuuuurse I am. I’ll visit Dorian while we’re in the city.”

“Very well, have it your way.” Conan Doyle paused for a second, and then continued with, “So Oscar, how come you don’t give names to any of your Pokémon? It seems so uncharacteristic of you.”

Oscar looked at Arthur as if he were a vulgar peasant, stripping naked before him. “Arthur! I’m surprised at you, being as accomplished a writer as you are. What did I tell you about using proper grammar?”

Arthur gave Oscar a death glare. How insolent could he be? Oscar was a dear dandy friend, but still, no need to offend an equal. Conan Doyle decided to play along with the stupidity charade. “Even in dialogue?”

“Yes, my dear rustic-dandy hybrid, even in dialogue. I love your sensibilities, but no need to be that rustic.”

“Well, then are you going to answer the question?”

“I will later, once I’ve had my time to think on it. I do so hate to answer in a rash manner.”

Arthur turned his attention back to their elegant place setting and lobster, when his ears pricked up, and he heard Oscar…talking to himself?  
Oscar took this moment to frown once again, as he thought Conan Doyle wasn’t listening. “Though I daresay I hope my summer hair has grown out better than his…Dorian’s I mean…”

Conan Doyle laughed, “Yeah, and you say our Jareth is the vain one…”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur wears a sod buttonhole, taunts Oscar and Dorian, and meets Jareth the Gym Leader, smack in the middle of the Apennines.

Oscar traipsed arm-in-arm with his progeny Dorian Gray, with matching buttonholes, and Oscar boasting a most-flamboyant, violet three-piece suit, flippant hair, and a lime green tie. Strolling into the Mischievous Misdreavus Dining Club, Oscar just finished his memorized “My dear sweet clodhoppers, if you knew anything of sexual psychology,” quote from Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited, he smirked at the decadent and minimalist place settings in the upscale club. “Very postmodern,” he remarked, noting the white tablecloths, silver-rimmed place settings, and one lily per table. 

Dorian and Oscar were just about to settle in when Oscar spied a mumbling drunk at the small bar in the back. He squinted his eyes only to bulge them a moment later. That poor, slumped drunk in the corner was friggin Conan Doyle.

Making his way over to his friend he asked, “Arthur, my dear boy, what the heck happened to you…?” Oscar scrunched his nose at the slump of sod tacked to Arthur’s breast pocket, serving as a makeshift buttonhole.

Arthur could only slosh another beer down his throat, and garble. “Feckin…..fecking…..feck….fecking Jareth won….the match.”

“Heavens…”

Arthur, never to be undone by a copious amount of alcohol, trudged on. “What the heck…you and Dorian, why you have matching butt holes?”

“Arthur, you dirty rotten, profane peasant! It’s a buttONhole, I TOLD you!”

“Whatever….doesn’t matter…” Arthur managed to shout. “I’M NOT GONNA BE A POKEMON MASTER!” before slumping over, passed out on the bar.

 

1 DAY AGO…

“Christ almighty, Arthur, how inconvenient is it that Constance dropped her Cleffa on me for this trip?” Oscar raised a petit cup of English breakfast tea with a lemon wedge to his lips and sipped, only after pursing his mouth into an annoyed smile. “It’s odd, because she rarely goes without her, and I know dear Constance was looking to evolve Cleffa soon, but how can she when the poor Cleffa needs her friendship to evolve? I say…”

“Whatever Oscar, I’m just focusing on my Jareth gym battle, we’re almost at the station, you know.”

“Okay, so what kind of gym does Jareth lead?”

“A pretentious one. He literally gathers the shiniest and most vain Pokémon to add to his collection, and his good looks and theirs often defeat many a good trainer.”

“Which ones does he usually bring out in the arena?”

Arthur shrugged. “I can only guess at some of them, from rumors here and there. My prodigy, Sherlock Holmes, battled him last week, and even his level 60 Houndoom couldn’t beat him. Stupid Goblin King” Arthur sighed again, ticking off his fingers the Pokémon Jareth was most likely to use. “Charmeleon for sure, Jareth loves the flame. Very tantalizing. Probably Sylveon, he also likes fairy Pokémon. Finally, since I think it’s only a three round match, he’ll use his mystic bird, Xatu.”

“You’ll be fine, Arthur. Isn’t this exciting!”

“You’re just looking for a good show, a drink, and some entertainment, my dear dandy Oscar.”

“You’re damn right.” Oscar nodded along. “But I do believe in you, Conan Doyle. Just don’t use that damn Metapod of yours…It’s useless and all it does is Harden.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Don’t even THINK of making a Lacanian penis joke…”

 

Arthur and Oscar sat perched on Arthur’s Lapras, trudging upstream the Tiber River through Rome, and by nighttime, reached Mount Fumaiolo, resting in the northern Apennines in the south section of Emilia-Romagna. Arthur gasped in astonishment as he saw, rising from the pockets of the deep cerulean sky of the evening and darkening peaks, a replica Temple of Adonis, boasting a cracked and beige-colored stone foundation and towering Grecian pillars which supported a clouding, thundering sky. The actual roof had long since disintegrated, and the Pokémon battle ring lay in the center of the Temple ruins, exposed to the elements. 

Arthur bounded up the steps to meet Jareth, his postmodern academic rival and Goblin King of the Labyrinth of King Minos of Crete. Jareth was a shapeshifter, much like Arthur’s Ditto (which often sat in his PC Box unused), and today resembled the spitting image of David Bowie. Standing at his side was one of his lesser known Pokémon, a Tauros.

“I see you’ve been hitting the cheese straws a little too hard, eh Arthur? You’ve gained some weight since I last saw you at the Trinity conference.”

Having returned his Lapras to her Pokéball, Arthur twiddled his curly, ruddy mustache between his fingers. “Thanks Jareth, such a pleasure.”

Oscar rushed up behind Arthur and tsk tsked. “Arthur, what did I tell you about chewing on your mustache? For god sakes.”

“I WASN’T chewing on it, geez. I know you can’t help butting into every conversation and making it about you or your Dorian-esque hair, but please Oscar, leave Jareth to me.”

Oscar pouted. “Have it your way. Just for that, I’m not sharing my Prosecco on the train tomorrow.”

“Whatever.” Arthur addressed Jareth. “You ready to battle?”

“You know I’m ALWAYS ready. Have you picked your Pokémon?”

“Yes. Three-round battle?”

Jareth nodded, flipping his curly locks, a shock of grey in his otherwise jet black hair blossoming around his ears. “You bet. Let me have another look in the mirror to perfect my appearance for victory, and then we shall begin.” Jareth began to turn, but then stopped in his tracks. “Ah, but first, draw your first Pokémon.” 

Arthur Conan Doyle reached under his jacket to unclip the first Pokéball in his belt, proclaiming, “Jigglypuff, I choose you!”


End file.
